Weird Tales v02n03 [1923-10]

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Here’s An Extraordinary Novel Filled with
Quick Action of An Unusual Sort

The Amazing Adventure
of Joe Scranton

THE AMAZING ADVENTURE OF JOE SCBANTON

Then I thought of Angeline. Suppose
that brute, who had possession of my
body, should awaken and knoek Angeline
over the head with a boot-.iack! Suppose
he should swear at her!

Angeline had never heard me swear.
Indeed, I had never spoken to her un¬
kindly but once in my life, and that was
when she had used my razor to chip dried
beef. Then I told her, calmly but
firmly—but no matter! I was sorry for
it afterward, and bought a ribbon bow
which I tied on the handle of the razor;
then gave it to Angeline to keep pur¬
posely to chip dried beef with.

I bought a fine new razor for myself,
which I kept under lock and key. But
as I lay there in that horrible English
cabin, with those two miserable women
near me, I thought of Angeline, and
wished I had left the new razor where
she could find it in ease the other was lost
or dulled.

I did not open my eyes. Tears from
the eyes of the affectionate Liz made my
borrowed face uncomfortably damp, but
it was better than to open my eyes to a
situation that would very likely be worse
than anything I had yet experienced.

Oh, how I wished I had never astral-

wish that I had never seen Helen. If it
had not been for her I meditated, I
should not have been made to suffer as
I was suffering now. What right had
she to lead me into temptation! An¬
geline and I were as happy as turtle
doves until she came between us.

I had never loved her, and never given
her any opportunity to think I did, and
none but an unwomanly woman, a very
unwomanly woman, would accept such
attentions as I had offered. I was sure
that nothing would ever have induced
Angeline to go sailing through the at¬
mosphere with any astral but mine; but
Helen was absolutely devoid of delicacy.
It was so easy for unsuspecting men
like me to be taken in by a designing

I formed many good resolutions as I
lay there, but all were secondary to the
wish that Liz would use a pocket hand¬
kerchief when she wept, or else stop kiss-

“Don’t take on like that,” said the
doctor kindly. “I think he’ll be himself
again in a little while. He is not sick.
He has only been a little drunker than

“Indeed, indeed, sir,” said Liz, with
pathetic earnestness, “he was not drunk
this time. He never has these spells
when he has plenty of money to buy

many a time, and I know these spells are
different.”

The doctor smiled, and said something
to the sister which I did not catch. It
was evident that he was quite sure Jack
was drunk, and I presume he would have
been no less sure of it had I opened my
eyes and given him a truthful account of
what had happened.

“Liz puts me out of all patience,”
said the sister. “How can she be fool
enough to care for a man who treats her
as Jack does? I’d have killed him long
ago and fed him to the hogs.”

How I did wish that she, instead of
Liz, had been Jack’s wife. In all proba¬
bility she would never have allowed him
to live long enough to become an astral.

“I really believe you would,” replied
the doctor, with a little laugh of amuse¬
ment. “Well, there does not seem to be
much that can be done to arouse him, so
I may as well go. I think he will come
to himself before long. If he becomes

Send for him, indeed! What could he

When the doctor had left, the sister,
whose name was Jane, persuaded Liz to
go out with her and have a cup of tea,
and I was alone.

I rose, immediately, and began to look
for something decent to wear.. I had no
idea as to where those women had gone
for their tea, or how long they would be
away; but of one thing I was very sure;
I must get away from them just as quick
as the Lord would let me, and I hated

matter how I looked. I felt that I would
be a failure should I try to personate
Jack, and there was no telling what
might result should it be discovered that
my nature was not what his had been.

It might work Liz up to a demonstra¬
tion of affection that would induce me to
kill her! I could not beat her over the
head with a boot-jack, as I knew I should
be expected to do, or swear at her, or
drag her around the room by her little
wisp of uncombed hair, or do any of the
other things which Jane had enumerated
as being among my favorite methods of
diversion.

Had I known just how Liz would have
regarded my conversion to a better life, I
might not have felt so uneasy. But if
I should be the means of leading her to
renewed efforts in the art of weeping-
should Bhe fall on my neck or hold my
head on her bosom while she wept into
my face, or let her tears drop steadily
on my bald crown, or attempt any of
the styles described in books that discuss
such topics—Oh, heavens! the very
thought lent speed to my movements. I
had had more than enough of the damp
Elizabeth.

I soon decided that 1 was wearing all
the clothes I owned. And the women

tiously made my exit through a back
window, and felt a bit of my trousers
cling to a nail and separate from thegar-

ing periods of my life, seen myself going
through the streets of any town with a
hole in my trousers that could not be
invisible except when I was seated.

It was easy to get away from the
house because the early morning was
dimmed with heavy fog.

“What is the number of this house?”
I asked of a man who was evidently go¬
ing to work.

He told me, with a leer, and asked
me where I got the money for drink, this

“I am not drunk,” I replied. “I am
a stranger here. Can you tell me the
name of the man who lives in that
house?”

“Do you mean Jack Walsh?” he
asked, then he called to a comrade.

“Come here, Bill! Jack is so drunk
that he can’t tell what his name is.”

“It isn’t Jack,” said Bill, after study¬
ing me a few minutes. “Jack couldn’t
be so civil spoken if ’twas to save him
from being hung.”

The men finally decided that I was
Jack’s brother, and I let it go at that.

I went out into the country and threw
myself under a tree, where I hoped I
should be free from intruders. I had de¬
cided to astralize myself again and en¬
deavor to discover what was going on at
home. I could think of no better way in
which to spend my time waiting for my
own body to be vacated.

All I would need to do would be to
inhabit my borrowed body just enough to
keep it alive, and finally leave it where
I found it, so that, in case its rightful
owner wished to claim it, he would have
no excuse for troubling me further.

CHAPTER FOUR

WITH what haste I sped me across
' ' the Atlantic! How my soul re¬
way through the ether of its native land!
Hope was at the helm. Who could guess
what good thing was in store for me?

I might find my body vacated, and
not so very stiff and cold! I might find
my intolerable tenant ready to return to
his own wife, just keeping my body
warm until I came to claim it. Surely, I
had suffered enough. I had a right to
expect release—and especially when I
asked so little of life—only the privilege
of living in my own body—of taking pos¬
session, never again to leave it, until
Death should come to claim me.

THE AMAZING ADVENTURE OF JOE SCEANTON

and assuming the attitude of a prize

To my intense joy food was brought
without further parley. It consisted of
a bowl of oatmeal porridge and a slice of
black bread without butter. It did not
look at all tempting, but I recollected
that .Jack’s body was in need of nourish¬
ment, and was, in all probability, used to
nothing better.

the broth as I would medicine, "what

dol”° " 01 * 111011 6 “ e 0811 ee

Liz made a rush for me when I asked
Ihe question, and I backed against the
wall and held the bread as if I would
hurl it at her.

‘‘Keep off, Liz!” I shouted. “If your
dripping face comes within five feet of
mine, I’ll mash it flat.”

It was harsh language to use to a
woman, and one of the most steadfast of
her sex at that, but I was desperate.

“Let him alone, Liz,” said Jane. “If
he is thinking of going to work, for
pity’s sake don’t distract his mind.”

Then Jane turned to me.

“I know of several warehouses that
need sweeping,” she said.

"Where?” I asked.

“I’ll get the work, you do it, and I’ll
take in the cash.”

“Indeed! Why can’t I handle my
own cash?”

“Yours! You have a number of debts
to pay before anything could be yours by
right. If you get one penny of it you’ll
never pay me a cent for what I have
done for you and Liz. ’ ’

I finally consented to Jane’s arrange¬
ment, greatly to her surprise, and spent
that day in sweeping warehouses. I felt
that I could not be under obligations to
a woman for food, even though it was
not my own body that I was trying to
keep alive, and I had no idea where a
man like Jack would find work. I could

do no better, until I became used to my
strange surroundings, than to let Jane
run me. She softened perceptibly, when
she saw how faithfully I applied myself,
and fed mo well. That was what I
wanted.

I had decided to get Jack’s body in
good working order. Then I would work
my passage across the Atlantic—from
there to Wisconsin. When I reached
home, I would try to obtain possession of
my body. Failing in that, I would have
two strong, material hands with which to
choke the life out of my body, rendering
it useless to my enemy. Then I would
cut Jack’s throat.

I might be committing a crime, but at
least I could relieve Angeline of the
presence of my enemy, and do no harm
to Liz. I realized that punishment might
follow, for I had no right to hasten my
departure into the next world, but I be¬
lieved that I could not be forever pun¬
ished for my desperate attempt to right a

This Unusual Story Will Be Concluded, in the Next Issue of WEIRD TALES.
Your Newsdealer Will Reserve a Copy for You

Aged Man Kills Wife, Self and “Other Woman”

run HE final chapter of a triangle love affair was written in
Battle Creek, Mich., recently, when John H. Wills, 74,
a wealthy retired business man murdered his wife, Ella, 68,
and Mrs. Maggie M. Stewart, 53, and then committed suicide.

For several months, it was learned, Mrs. Wills had been
trying to break up a love affair between her husband and
Mrs. Stewart, having several times threatened divorce pro¬
ceedings. The tragedy is ascribed to this.

Under the pretense of taking Mrs. Stewart for a ride.

Wills drove her to a remote spot six miles from the city,
shot her in the head and then cut her throat with a razor.
Upon returning home, he immediately shot his wife and
then killed himself.

Bodies of Wills and his wife were found in their apart¬
ment by a newspaper reporter who broke down the door
after hearing shots. Search for Mrs. Stewart’s body was
started after a nephew of Wills’ had told police his uncle
declared that she would be found beyond the city limits
near an old bridge.

World Ice To Wipe Out Continents

BEAT changes will take place in the geographic struc¬
ture of the world and many of the continents will be
completely wiped out during the next world ice epoch, which
is now somewhat overdue, according to the statement of
Prof. Gregory of Yale university, American representative
to the Pan-Pacific Science congress at Melbourne.

The last great expansion of ice occurred 20,000 years ago,
and previously there were four or five similar advances from
the poles, with warm periods intervening, said Prof. Gregory.

During the next advance, according to Prof. Gregory, all
high lands will become glaciated, the map of the world will
undergo changes, and the North American continent will
disappear as far south as the great lakes. Scandinavia,
Scotland, a part of England, and a large part of Asia and
Siberia will be wiped out. Switzerland, owing to its high
lands, will be entirely obliterated.

From the Antarctic ocean a large slice of South America,
including most of Chile, will be overrun, and the southern
portion of New Zealand will suffer.

Here's a Story of Creeping Horror

That Rises, Gradually, To a Powerful Climax

It’s a Story Not Easily Forgotten

The Phantom Farm House

By SEABURY QUINN

THE

THE PHANTOM FARM HOUSE

behind the clearing an owl hooted
mournfully, as if to say, “Beware, be¬
ware!” and the wind soughing through
the black pine boughs echoed the re-

Three mounds, sunken and weed-
grown, lay in the unkempt thicket behind
the comerib. I paused beside them,
throwing off my cap and adjusting my
stole hastily. Thumbing the pages to
the committal service, I held the book
close, that I might see the print through
the morning shadows, and commenced:
“I know that my redeemer liveth. .

Almost beside me, under the branches
of the pines, there rose such a chorus
of howls and yelps I nearly dropped my
book. Like all the hounds in the kennels
of hell, the sheep-killers clamored at
me, rage and fear and mortal hatred in
their cries. Through the bestial cadences,
too, there seemed to run a human note;
the sound of voices heard before beneath
these very trees. Deep and throaty, and
raging mad. two of the voices came to
me, and, like the tremolo of a violin
lightly played in an orchestra of brass,
the shriller cry of a third beast sounded.

As the infernal hubbub rose at my
back, I half turned to fly. Next instant
I grasped my book more firmly and re¬
sumed my office, for like a beacon in the
dark, Mildred’s words flashed on my
memory: “Look back for nothing; heed
no sound behind you.”

Strangely, too, the din approached no
nearer; but as though held by an in¬
visible bar, stayed at the boundary of
the clearing.

“Man that is bom of a woman hath
but a short time to live and is full of
misery. . . deliver us from all our of¬
fenses. . . 0, Lord, deliver us not into
the bitter pains of eternal death. . .”
and to such an accompaniment, surely,
as no priest ever before chanted the
office, I pressed through the brief service
to the final Amen.

Tiny grouts of moisture stood out on
my forehead, my breath struggled in my
throat as I gasped out the last word. My
nerves were frayed to shreds and my
strength nearly gone as I let fall my
book, and turned upon the beasts among

begun, their clamor stopped, and only
the rotting pine needles, lightly gilded
by the morning sun, met my gaze. A
light touch fell in the palm of my open
hand, as if a pair of cool, sweet lips had
laid a kiss there.

A vapor like swamp-fog enveloped me.
The outbuildings, the old, stone-curbed
well where I had drunk the night I first
saw Mildred, the house itself—all seemed
fading into mist and swirling away in
the morning breeze.

“■pH, EH, EH; but M’sieur will do
himself an injury, sleeping on the
wet earth!” Old Geronte bent over me,
his arm beneath my shoulders. Behind
him, great Boris, the mastiff, stood
wagging his tail, regarding me with
doggish good humor.

“Pierre,” I muttered thickly, “how
came you heret”

“This morning, going to my tasks, 1
saw M’siextr run down the road like a
thing pursued. I followed quickly, for
the woods hold terrors in the dark,
M’sieur.”

I looked toward the farmhouse. Only
a pair of chimneys, rising stark and bare
from a crumbling foundation were
there. Fence, well, barn—all were gone,
and in their place a thicket of sumac
and briars, tangled and overgrown as
though undisturbed for thirty years.

“The house, Pierre! Where is the
house?” I croaked, sinking my fingers
into his withered arm.

“ ’ouset” he echoed. “Oh, but of
course. There is no ’ouse here, M’sieur;
nor has there been for years. This is
an evil place, M’sieur; it is best we quit
it, and that quickly. There be evil
things that run by night—”

“No more,” I answered, staggering
toward the road, leaning heavily on him.
"I brought them peace, Pierre.”

He looked dubiously at the English
prayer book I held. A Protestant
clergyman is a thing of doubtful use¬
fulness to the orthodox French-Canad-
ian. Something of the heartsick misery
in my face must have touched bis kind
old heart, for at last he relented, shaking
his head pityingly and patting my
shoulder gently, as one would soothe a
sorrowing child.

“Per’aps, M’sieur,” he conceded.
“Per’aps; who shall say no? Love and
sorrow are the purchase price of peace.
Yes. Did not le bon Dieu so buy the
peace of the world!”

Sight Without Eyes

A FRENCH scientist named Louis Farigonle says that
’ Y human beings have latent within them the power to see
without eyes. This alleged power is termed paroptio vision.

After exhaustive experiments, Farigonle has written a book
on the subject in which he states that man has a "paroptio
sense” that is capable of communieating to the brain cog¬
nisance of the existence of surrounding objects practically
identical with the effeot of ordinary vision. His claim is that
any part of the bodily exterior may be capable of paroptic
vision under certain conditions.

Other experimenters who have taken up the work claim

to have attained similar results. They state their belief that
paroptic vision is a natural faculty and that light is the
agent that produces paroptic vision. They also claim that
variations in the intensity of light produce the same effects
as they do in ordinary vision and that neither touoh nor any
of the other senses has anything to do with paroptic

When the tests were made, precautions were taken which
eliminated all possibility of any use of the eyes, yet the
subjects were able to perceive and name objects with abso¬
lute precision.

Genoese Riviera Damaged by Waterspout

A GIGANTIC waterspout struck the Genoese Riviera a
short time ago, injuring many people and doing untold
damage. Sestri, Pegli, Gornigliano and Ban Pier d'Arena
were the principal places affeoted. The storm, which lasted
nearly an hour, unroofed the Ansaldo Pig Iron Works at
Pegli and many persons were injured by falling tiles. The

damage to the Ansalado Depot at San Pier d’Arena was
estimated at 100,000 lira and many victims of the storm were
taken to hospitals. Electric power lines were torn down and
bathing establishments and trees for a half mile along the
coast were cut away. It is said that, at one point, a brick
house was leveled to the ground.

H. P. LOVECRAFT, Master of Weird Fiction,
Has Something Unusual To Say in

DAGON

This is the First of a Series of Remarkable Stories that H. P. LOVECRAFT is
Writing for WEIRD TALES . The Second Will Appear in an Early Issue

The Hero of This Story Had a Beautiful Dream
and a Rude Awakening

THE MAN WHO OWNED
THE WORLD

By FRANK OWEN

THE MAN WHO OWNED THE WORLD

* * I live apart from the howling mobs, ’ ’
he told me, “so that my sleep will not bo
disturbed. Each mom I am awakened
by a lad as lovely as Narcissus who plays
an anthem of the Sun on a harp wrought
of gold and platinum and set with a
hundred and thirty-three pink diamonds.
At the top of the harp is a single square
blue diamond of forty carats, the finest
in the world. It represents the Morning
Star. The strings of the harp are the
rays of the sun. The pink diamonds
represent the individual kingdoms over
which I reign.”

As he spoke, we came to a hole in the
ground, a filthy ancient cellar. I must
confess that I had a twinge of terror as
I followed John Rust down a flight of
slippery stone steps, more treacherous
and steep than the facade of Gibraltar.

Something, I know not what, scamp¬
ered across my feet and went screeching
off into the blackness which engulfed us
like the shadows in a tomb of recent-
death. I could hear John Rust fumbling
about, and after an eternity of waiting,
he struck a match and lighted a candle.
As he did so, he cried:

“Behold, my treasure-chamber 1”

By the dim light of the candle which
made the silhouette of John Rust dance
on the wall like the capering of a fiend,
I glanced about me. The cellar was ab¬
solutely unfurnished, unless the cobwebs
of a century can be classed as drapery.
Down the stone steps the night rain

“Look!” fairly shrieked John Rust,
"look at these diamonds, sapphires,
carved jades, rare corals, tourmalenes,
emeralds and gorgeous lapis lazuli 1 Has
ever mortal man gazed on a finer collec¬
tion than this! Here is more wealth than
even Midas dreamed of. The Gaekwar
of Baroda by comparison to me is with¬
out jewels; the Dalai Llama of Tibet is
a pauper when the light of n\y wealth
shines upon him. All the treasures of
Rome are insignificant when held par¬
allel to mine. The Incas of Peru owned
less than I divide in a single year among
the poor I”

He clutched at the bits of ashes, coal
and pebbles which were falling through

his fingers, the wealth which the Gods
had lavished on him so prodigiously.

“Tell me,” he cried hoarsely, “are
your eyes not blinded by the brilliance
of my stonesf”

“My surprise at what you tell me is
acute,” I declared truthfully. “I can
scarcely find words to express my
thoughts.”

“Don't try,” said John Rust grandly.
“The greatest rhetoricians the world has
ever known have never invented words
even to suggest their true magnificence.
.... Nor is this treasure all I possess.
I own the world ! Every castle of Rome
or Venice is mine; every pasture of Eng¬
land, every moor of Scotland, every «ity
in America, I own. Come,” he ended
abruptly, “come with me, and I will
show you my private bath, a pool such
as Mark Antony or the mighty Caesar
never dreamed of.”

It must be confessed that I sighed
with relief as he led the way up the worn
stone steps again. It was good to be
out in the open air once more even
though it was raining as heavily as when
Noah set sail.

John Rust led the way back to Wash¬
ington Square, to the fountain in the
center of the park.

“This,” he explained, “is my bath,
shaded by myrtle trees and palms and
in the heart of a grove where ten thou¬
sand song birds sing. Among the seven
wonders of the world is nothing to equal
this. I am better than Monte Cristo,
for whereas he only boasted when he ex¬
claimed, ‘The world is mine!’ I can
prove my claim to it”

T'vURING the days that followed, I
met John Rust several times, and
although I cannot say that he remem¬
bered me, he nevertheless talked to me,
which was really all he desired. He be¬
lieved that all the people in the great
city were his slaves and this misconcep¬
tion was the direct cause of his undoing.

While his eccentricities flowed in a
harmless channel he was unmolested, buf
one day he struck one of his subjects
with his sceptor. The sceptor was a
strong oak cudgel and the subject in
question was a huge, stalwart ice-man

who strenuously objected to being dis¬
ciplined. He raised such a din that two
policemen were necessary to quell his

After chaos had ended, the ice-man
continued on his rounds, but John Rust
was detained until the police-patrol ar¬
rived. He believed it was a chariot of
gold, that the crowd gathered around
had come to envy Caesar, and so he
climbed in as majestically as though he
were about to proceed to the Coliseum
as the supreme guest of the populace on
a fete day.

In the course of weeks a great brain
specialist, because he was interested in
the case, examined John Rust and as¬
serted that he could be successfully
normalized by a simple operation. He
went on to explain about the pressure
of a bone on some vital spot in the brain,
the removal of which would insure the
return of rationality.

The operation was successfully per¬
formed and eventually John Rust was
turned out of the hospital a withered,
broken old man, entirely cured.

He went back to his cellar. The first
thing he intended doing was to sell his
jewels and deposit the money in a reli¬
able bank, for he still retained the
memory of his jewels, although the
hallucination that he owned the world
was entirely blotted out of his memory.

So he returned to his cellar only to
find heaps of worthless stones and ashes.
He shrieked in his anguish. He had been
robbed of all his jewels! For a moment
it seemed doubtful that his new-found
sanity could stand the surging flood of
his ravings. All his enormous wealth
had vanished like the essence of a dream.
Now life contained nothing for him. He
had neither relatives nor friends. He
had lived in his dungeon for more than
ten years. No one knew from whence he
had come. For hours he sat, perhaps

awfully as any woman for a lost child.

Months later they found him dead one
morning in his cellar, lying face down¬
ward in the ashes. He had died of grief,
in abject poverty, this man who once had
owned the world and had ten million

A Tragic Story, Powerfully Told

GREY SLEEP

By CHARLES HORN

T IMES there were in her married
life when Meta Hansen asked for
death. Not many times, true,
but each one stood out terrifically, even
after she believed she had made herself

Worst of all of these were the days fol¬
lowing the death of her firstborn, a boy,
and the days following the death of her
lastbom, a girl. After these were the
times when David, her husband, had
found her pets, the two white rats, where
she had hidden them in the shed back of
the house. David had held her off and
watched coldly while the fat grey cat
caught the rats, one after the other.
(The cat was the property of a neigh¬
bor.)

Last of all of her petitions for death
came, it seemed, when David tipped into
the yard the two geranium plants that
for a day had decked the side window
of the little living room. David crushed
the red blossoms under his heeL

“Foolishness! Soft foolishness!” he
growled, both when disposing of the
white rats and the red flowers. “A
woman ain’t got no time for them things.
A woman has her work to do. ”

The most terrific death, then, Meta
would have kissed as it came to her.

All these occurrences, came to pass in
the first five years of her married life,
and looking back frequently—but more
infrequently—she had asked questions.
Had these times taken something out of
her! Had they deadened her passion¬
ate longing for love? Had these cruel¬
ties—twice at the hands of her husband
and twice at tho hands of her God-
made her reconciled to life!

She believed they had. For more than
fifteen years she had taught herself that
she must bend every nerve of her body,
every thought of her consciousness,
every impulse of her hours, to David, and
as he willed. His actions had taught her
that she must not be soft; that she must

not disturb him with caresses; that she
must not interrupt his hours with chat¬
ter ; that she must not have impulses of
affection, except , as he willed and at his
command. Her life became a series of
“must nols.”

Months after the death of her last
child, with her eyes on a yellow-haired,
lnBty, three-year-old boy, Meta timidly

aching, her bosoms lifting and pulling
with the great yearning each time she
saw the child. Her mother-heart,
starved for love, hungered for him. He
would bring the great completeness to
her hours. And they could get this child.
Tentatively she had arranged this. Tim¬
idly she carried the questiou to David.

“Talk not to me of other people’s
brats!” he roared. “Why should we
take things that ain’t for us?”

Then, after a long silence, and just as
her lips trembled on the edge of another

The Final Installment of

The People of the Comet

By AUSTIN HALL

CHAPTER SEVER
“ ' T DREW up in front of the dwelling,
^ and 88 X came to a stop the maiden,
without a bit of hesitation, ran out to
meet me, running alongside the ether
ship until she came to the porthole
where she could look in at me.

“ ‘Never had i seen any one so beauti¬
ful

“ ‘She had a lack of fear that came
from innocence. She was as golden
haired as a fairy, and of a grace that
far outdid that of any maiden I had ever
known upon the Earth. Her features
were perfect; her lips red as the juice
of berries; and her form sylphlike. Her
dress was even stranger than her beauty
—a tunic of feathers thrown over her
right shoulder, leaving her left brCast
bare, but covering her waist, and reach¬
ing down to her knees. Her feet were
sandaled.

had no proof that I could live in it I
could see all kinds of organic life, to be
sure, but it was not such as I had known
upon the Earth. I would first make a
test of the cometary atmosphere; so X
pressed a lever and ran a glass container
ont through one of the small doors.

“ ‘The girl seemed to understand.
When she saw what I had done she
reached down and picked up a kitten-like
creature that was running about her feet,
and placed it in the container. Then she

“ ‘Thus I tested the atmosphere of the
comet. I drew in the glass and examined
the kitten, or what I call such, for it had
really the legs of a rabbit If the crea¬
ture should suffer at all in the ether car
—that is, in my own atmosphere — 1
would know that X could not venture
outside.

“ ‘The girl watched through the port-

“ ‘It was a strange moment for the
both of us.

“ ‘ Here was I, an adventurer from the
planet Earth, on a visit to a comet;
What a maiden was this! She was the
most beautiful I had ever looked at; her
eyes blue, large, innocent, and full of
eagerness. Her whole expression was
that of hope, wonder, impatience. She
held one hand above the port-hole and
peered within, and when she saw me she
began beckoning. There was a strange
look in her eyes that I could not fathom.

“ ‘For a minute I remained in my
seat, admiring her beauty. I could not
hear her, of course; but I could watch
her impatience. She was as natural as
a child and as splendid as a goddess.
When I did not move she clenched her
tiny fist and pounded on the port-hole.

“ ‘She pointed toward the dwelling.
Her eyes were wide, pleading. When I
did not answer she broke into a little
spasm of anger and beat her fist against
the side as if she would break her way
through the ether ship.

“ ‘What could be the meaning of such
a reception as this? Who could she bet

“ ‘I had to be careful. Even if there
were an atmosphere upon the nucleus I

“ ‘I placed the little creature upon the
floor. At first it was timid. But after a
bit it began scampering about in perfect
comfort. If the kitten could live in my

not venture outside. The girl seemed to
anticipate my intention. She ran to the

" ‘ When I stepped out of the ether car
I was a bit unsteady. I had been many
hours without sleep; and I had been
forced, throughout the whole journey, to
maintain myself in a more or less
cramped position. The air outside was
fresh and balmy, sweet like the morning.
There was no sky such as we know upon
the Earth, and no sunlight The air
was full of a red glow that came from the
coma above us. The gravitation was verti¬
cal as it is upon the Earth; and I did not
notice that I felt a bit stronger or lighter
than I had felt in Sansar. This, I
learned, afterward, was because of the
extreme magnetic pitch of the nucleus.
The horizon, where the whirling rim shot
up its wreaths, was the blaze of glorious
crimson. The grass under my feet was
soft, like clover. The air was good to
breathe.

“‘The girl ran up tome. In the clear
view of the open light she was even more
beautiful. Her arms were bare, finely
moulded. She was devoid of all fear, or

immodesty; her eyes were like a child’s.
Like a child she seized me by the arm and
began speaking.

“ ‘I marvelled at her voice, at its soft¬
ness, and at its wistfulness; but I could
not understand. The words she spoke
had no meaning to me. I could only read
her gestures, and look into her wonderful
eyes Clearly something was wrong.
She clung to my arm, and by impas¬
sioned pantomime let me know that it
was in the dwelling. Her interest was not
in the ether ship; nor in its contents.

“ ‘I could not but follow. The door
yard was carpeted with verdure, and
spangled with flowers; trees surrounded
the stone dwelling on three sides. To the
left ran the little river.

“ ‘She took my hand in hers and led
me up the path. Her palm was soft and
magnetic; I could sense her thrill of
hope, eagerness and triumph. Twice she
looked up at me and stniled—a look of
childish possession and pride, as if I
had come just in time to fulfill a long
lost hope. At the door she stopped. She
held her finger to her lips, and entered—

“ ‘In a minute she returned. She
took my hand again, and led me across
the threshold, through an ante-room, and
then through another door. Then she
stopped. She pointed to a figure reclin¬
ing upon a couch on the opposite side of
the room.

“ ‘It was the form of a man, one of
the most remarkable men I bad ever
seen, a man very aged, and venerable, a
giant of a man. He was asleep, or (the
thought startled) perhaps dying! He
was propped up in pillows; his arms
were crossed on the coverlet before him.
His beard and hair were of snowy white¬
ness; and his face, even with the eyes
closed, was the noblest that I had ever

sensed at once that here was virtue,
pride, wisdom, nobility. Who was this
strange man, and who was the maiden?
What had brought them here 1

“ ‘The girl left my side. She ran to
the bed and knelt down. First she
picked up one of the worn hands and
kissed it; then she raised up and pressed
her lips to those of the sleeper. She
spoke a few words.

An Odd Little Tale That You Can Read in Five Minutes

THE SIGN FROM HEAVEN

By A. HAVDAL

to!*

“ Creepy” Story Told in a Quaint Way
; Arthur Edwards Chapman

THE INN OF DREAD

Stark Terror is the Keynote of This Strange Tale

THE HAIRY MONSTER

very often in the evening the doctor
would drop in for a quiet smoke and a
few minutes’ conversation. And on one
or two occasions X have known of his act¬
ually deserting a learned company of sa¬
vants, to come to my cottage and con-

Naturally, X believe that Doctor Carrol
thought a great deal of me; and I would
have died for him.

I think Ms eyes were the moat notice¬
able thing about him. Strange, mag¬
netic eyes they were; which, when one
once looked into them, seemed to possess
the property of holding Ms gaze until the
doctor choso to look away. Hypnotic, I
guess you would call it. Certainly no
man could ever forget the eyes of Doctor
CarroL

And because I could never forget the
eyes of my master, a group of analysts
judged me insane! Bah! They do not
know what I know—and probably never

win.

From time to time, the learned doctor
had been engaged in scientific experi¬
ments. Though I never did know the
complete details of those experiments, I
did know that the doctor held an en¬
viable place in the world of science, and
that he was the author of several books
wMch had caused sensational stirs among
his fellow scientists. In fact, X was at all
times impressed with the depth of the
doctor’s learning.

And I never ceased to marvel at the
tMngs he sometimes showed me in his
laboratory. Horrible, grotesque, and
sometimes seemingly supernatural were
the things which he brought before my
attention. Had X been superstitious or
of weak heart, I know that I would long
ago have died of the horrors wMch he
showed me.

But the calm, precise doctor often
complimented me by saying that I was
able to see such tMngs in the calm, dis¬
passionate light with wMch all scientists
must view their experiments. Thus en¬
couraged, I continued my infrequent vis¬
its to the laboratory and endeavored to
manifest an enthusiasm for the horrible
and eerie things wMch he showed me;
though often, after seeing some of Ms
terrible creations, I would return to my
hut, and lie awake all night long, too
shaken by the sights I had witnessed to

The result of the doctor’s last experi¬
ment, however, made such a deep impres¬
sion upon me that for three months after,
I was confined to the violent ward of the
state hospital, with the attendants des¬
pairing of ever restoring my sanity.

I T WAS in the latter part of May that
I first began to miss the doctor from
his accustomed haunts. No longer did
he come down to my cottage in the eve¬
ning for a quiet smoke and a few min¬
utes’ chat. From Mr. Barton, the doc¬
tor’s son-in-law, I learned that he was
spending most of Ms time in the concrete
laboratory ; appearing at the house only
for Ms meals and to snatch a few hours

“It is sometMng big he is working on
aid Mr. Barton. “He won’t

■ of in

le laborat
. When he does a;

Barton saw it about the same time I
did; and X noticed that he shuddered.
Then, as though desiring to lose sight of
the crimson pool, he quickened Ms pace.

"Blood!” he muttered as though to
himself. “Fresh blood every day, a‘

let ai

at the house, it is only to
eat, or to doze for a moment, men ne os
all haste to get back to the laboratory.
And he is so nervous and excited; I
swear that I have never seen him so en¬
thusiastic over an experiment: We’ll see
a lot of excitement around here when he
finally throws open the door of the labor¬
atory and invites his friends out to see
what he has done.”

Remembering some of the tMngs I had
seen within the grim walls of the labor¬
atory, I could not restrain a shudder.
But as days passed, X found that a cer¬
tain morbid curiosity seemed to be con¬
tinually drawing me toward the labor¬
atory, in the hope that I might gain an
inkling as to what was going on behind
those closely-barred windows.

That it was sometMng to strike fear
to the heart of mortal man, I well knew
—yet I could not keep away from the
place. Then the doctor disappeared en¬
tirely, and I learned that he was having
Ms meals sent out to him, and was spend¬
ing both days and nights within the walls
of the laboratory.

About a month after the doctor had
shut Mmself up in the concrete labora¬
tory I had been working on the far side
of the estate, and at sunset, as I turned
my stepB toward my cottage, I met Mr.
Barton. He fell into step beside me and
walked to my door. I knew at once that
the young man was deeply worried about
something, and though he spoke no word
as we walked along, I knew that he
wanted to confide in me. But I held my

At last we left the shadowy woods and
came out upon the concrete driveway
wMch led to the house and the labora¬
tory. For a time, we walked along, the

on the gravel, which a recent rain had
washed down. I was vainly trying to ar¬
rive at some conclusion as to what had
so disturbed my young companion, when,
suddenly, I stopped and stared in hor-

gleaming in rite setting sun, lay a large
pool of fresh blood I

“What’s that, sir!” I asked respect¬
fully.

He stopped suddenly and seized my
sleeve.

“Greening,” he said nervously, “this
thing is getting on my nerves, and I’ve
simply got to have someone to talk to.
You saw that pool of blood back there;
but do you know what it means!”

I admitted that I did not.

“I only wish I did,” he said. “I do
know that day after day the doctor has

_, only a quart;

gallon. Today—” here, he
towerea ms voice— 1 ‘ today, it was ten
gallons I”

“It probably has something to do with
his experiments,” I said with attempted
lightness. “I have known of him having
stranger things than blood in that old
laboratory.”

“What kind of an experiment can he
be conducting which requires ten gallons
of blood every day ! ’ ’ demanded Mr. Bar¬
ton. “I tell you, man, I’m afraid. I
have a feeling that something is going to
happen! SometMng terrible 1 ’ ’

At last he left me, still muttering that
something terrible was about to happen.
For a long time after he had gone, I sat
alone on the veranda of my cottage,
watcMng the bright red glow of the west¬
ern sky. Red—red like blood. And then
I shuddered—why, I know not.

I do not think I had been influenced
by Mr. Barton’s fears—indeed, I had al¬
most forgotten them. But suddenly
there had come over me an overwhelm¬
ing premonition of impending disaster.
Though the night was hot and sultry, I
felt suddenly cold and afraid. TMnking
to lose this feeling of depression, I rose
and entered the house. Inside, with the
lights switched on, things began to as¬
sume a more cheerful aspect. Indeed, I
managed to laugh at my fears, wMch
seemed so groundless.

Would to God that I had heeded them!

T LAST, as the clock struck twelve.

A *, 1

ctinguisMng the light, I
stepped out onto the veranda, and looked
up the driveway toward the laboratory.
The night was hot and sultry, with prom¬
ise of rain before the morrow. Light,
scudding clouds raced across the sky, at
times entirely obscuring the moon. I no-

“X know what he has been doing with
it,” he whispered. “One day, the man
from the abattoir did not eome, and I
had to drive in and bring it out. The
doctor took the can inside the laboratory,
and dumped the blood into a long trough
—just like a hog trough. One end of it
stuck out through a partition which the
doctor had built across the laboratory.
And as the blood ran down the trough,
I heard a movement behind the parti¬
tion, like some animal rushing to its
feed.”

“What sort of an animal J” I asked.

“What sort?” he echoed. “What sort
of an animal do you expect to drink ten
gallons of blood every day t ’ ’

And then a sudden thought struck me.
“It couldn’t have been that animal
which committed this crime, whatever it
was,” I said. “At the time I heard the
scream I was standing just outside the
window of the laboratory. The doctor
was awake when I first saw him, and
therefore it would have been impossible
for the beast to have escaped. As I stood
there, the doctor went to sleep—but I
was just outside the window, the only
open one in the building, and would
have seen anything which came out.”

“Then who—or what did do it!” de¬
manded Burrows.

“I don’t know—but we are going to
find out, if possible,” I replied. “Get a
gun, if you can find one, and join me
outside. We will go, first, to the labora¬
tory, to inform the doctor. Then we
will search the grounds thoroughly.”

Outside, the storm had increased in
fury, and we had great difficulty in mak¬
ing our way through the driving rain
to the laboratory. The brilliant flares of
lightning intermittently revealed our
surroundings as light as day, and the
next instant we were plunged into dark¬
ness so deep that often we stumbled and
fell. It seemed that all the elements of
nature were against us, yet we persisted
in our attempt to reach the doctor.

At last we succeeded in reaching the
grim walls of the laboratory. Burrows
raised the butt of his rifle and pounded
loudly upon the steel door; then we
waited impatiently for the doctor to
open it. There was no response.

Again we beat upon the door, and,
while Burrows waited, I made my way
around the building to where I had seen
the open shutter. A sudden clutch of
dread seized my heart as I saw that it
was closed. Of comae, it would have
been perfectly natural for the doctor to
have closed it against- the rain—but still
I shuddered. Wondering and fearful, I
made my way back to the door, where
Burrows waited.

THE HAIRY MONSTER

“He doesn’t answer!” he shouted to
me above the tumult of the storm.

Vainly did I try to reason with my¬
self that nothing could have happened to
the doctor, safe as he was behind those
walls of solid concrete. A growing fear
came over me that behind the unyielding
steel door we would find another trag¬
edy. And I was unable to throw the
feeling off, even though I reasoned that
the doctor had been sleeping when last I
saw him, and that perhaps his sheer ex¬
haustion or the fury of the storm made it
impossible for him to hear our efforts to
get in. At last I yielded to my fears
and suggested that we break down the

"Do you think—” began Burrows
chatteringly.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “But we
are going to find out. I believe that it
will be possible for us to remove the door
from its hinges.”

“Oh, why didn’t I return to the city
tonight!” moaned Burrows. “Blood—
blood and murder. First, the doctor’s
daughter and her husband—now the doe-
tori”

“Shut up and bring some tools,” I
commanded gruffly. “I believe we will
find the doctor perfectly well; but we
must get to work.”

Reluctantly, he went to the garage for
tools, and we fell to work on the massive
steel door. How long we labored I have
no means of knowing, for we lost all ac¬
count of the time in our frenzied ef¬
forts to reach our master.

At last we succeeded in driving out the
last pin. A strong pull on the crow¬
bar, and the immense steel door crashed
to the ground, where the rain beat upon
it relentlessly. There remained a wooden
door which we must also force if we
were to gain entrance to the doctor’s
workroom. This yielded quickly to our
efforts, and then we paused, suddenly
stricken with an unknown fear. For the
place was in absolute darkness—like that
of a tomb!

“Doctor Carrol!” I called nervously.

An empty, mocking echo from the
vault was my only response. And then
suddenly I knew that we would never
find the doctor alive—that, for the sec¬
ond time that evening, I stood in the
presence of a horrible and mysterious
death.

Death—and something else! Some
subtle intuition told me that in this
vault of the dead was a living, breathing

“For God’s sake, get a flashlight!” I
said huskily, as I took a firmer grip on
my shotgun.

Burrows hastened away, to return a
moment later with the desired article.

46

Not without some misgivings, I stepped
inside the building, directed the lamp
toward the chair where I had last seen
the doctor, and pressed the button.

I think I must have screamed at what I
saw. There, by the window, his throat
jaggedly tom from ear to ear, sat the
lifeless body of the doctor. I had no
doubt that the doctor had been attacked
while he slept, and that the same beast
which had killed his daughter and her
husband had also slain the doctor. One
peculiar thing impressed itself upon me;
and that was the complete absence of
blood. Nowhere about the doctor was
there a drop to be seen, and this, in
spite of the fact that his throat had been
ripped and torn in a most fiendish man-

Then I saw how it happened that the
building was in total darkness. In death,
the doctor’s head had been thrown back
against the wall, and, coming into con¬
tact with the switch, had broken the eur-

Warning Burrows to keep a close
watch, I took a firmer grip on my shot¬
gun and entered the room. Tremblingly,
I strode over to the lifeless body of the
doctor, lifted his head, and switched on
the lights. No sooner had they flashed
on than I heard a horrible, terror-
stricken scream from the doorway. Bur¬
rows had disappeared!

■With a sudden clutch of dread upon
my heart, I slowly wheeled about, re¬
luctant to gaze upon the sight which
must have driven Burrows screaming
from the doorway. The thing I saw
was even more hideous than my wildest
imaginings had made it.

There, not ten feet distant from me,
I beheld the most horrible creature ever
seen upon this earth! Measuring fully
six feet from head to tail, and possessing
a head as large as my own, this creature
suddenly raised itself upon its long,
slender legs.

And then I realized for the first time
what it was. In spite of its monstrous
size, I quickly recognized it as a spider
—a gigantic, horrible, grotesque spider!

T PRAY that, never again may I be
A brought face to face with such a hide¬
ous parody on nature. How long I stood,
staring in fascinated horror at this ter¬
rible monstrosity, I do not know. The
body and the legs of the creature were
literally saturated in fresh, smelly blood
-the blood of Mr. Barton and his wife.
With a shudder, i realized how closely
I had escaped tile fate which had over¬
taken the other two, and, last of all, the
doctor. With a sudden rage against this
blood-spattered murderer, I raised my

An Uncanny Yarn About Devil Worshipers

DEVIL MANOR

A Complete Novelette

By E. B. JORDAN

DEVIL

The Case of the Golden Lily

Beginning a Series of Remarkable Articles

□ WEIRD CRIMES □

No, 1—Bluebeard

Compiled from Transcripts of the Judicial Records of the Ancient Duchy of Brittany

N OT long ago the world was
startled by the revelations of
the trial of Henri Landru, ac¬
cused of murdering ten women and an
eighteen-year-old boy. ‘ ‘ Bluebeard ’ ’ the
newspapers dubbed him, comparing him
to the most grisly character in all the

How few of those who echoed the news
writer’s epithet realized that Landru,
who later expiated his crimes upon the
guillotine at Versailles, and even the
“Bluebeard” whose story still frightens
fretful children to stillness, were but
amateurs in crime compared to the man
who first bore the name; the man whose
trial and conviction rocked Mediaeval
Prance to its foundations, and whose
criminal exploits surpass the wildest
flights of imaginative fiction 1 Never in
the stories of Poe, of Gautier, of de
Maupassant—not even Bram Stoker’s
Count Dracula—has a character more
depraved, more terrible, more fascinat¬
ing, been portrayed than Gilles de Laval,
Sire de Retz, Marshal of Prance, cham¬
berlain to the French king and cousin to
the mighty Duke of Brittany.

“The most monstrously depraved im¬
agination,” says a French criminologist,
"never could have conceived what this
trial reveals. This memorable trial pre¬
sents horrors unsurpassed in the entire
volume of the world’s history.”

During the year 1440 terrible rumors
spread through Brittany, especially
through the ancient pays de Retz, which
extends along the Loire from Nantes to
Paimboeuf.

In hundreds of peasant cottages
mothers wept for children they would
see no more, and at the village inns,
when the laborers repaired from their
fields to drink an evening cup of wine,
whispered curses, mingled with sighs
apd exclamations of grief, were heard.
And always, when the peasants muttered
their sullen complaints to each other, the
name of the Sire de Retz was whispered.

By SEABURY QUINN

In that day the great feudal lords
owned the common people almost as ab¬
solutely as they owned the land itself,
and the Sire de Retz’s chateau was
strong, his men at arms were many.
What could a handful of wooden-shod
peasants, armed only with scythes and
flails, avail against the King’s favorite?

But one last hope remained to the
peasantry. Though the chivalry of
Prance was a mighty institution, the
Church of Rome was mightier. No noble,
be his sword ever so long or his arro¬
gance so great, dared lay hand upon the
humblest village priest; and to their
spiritual advisers the peasants betook
themselves when their pleas to the civil
authorities fell on deaf ears.

Word was borne to Jean de Chateau-
giron, Bishop of Nantes, that oppression
lay heavy upon his people in Brittany,
and, like the energetie prince of the
church he was, the bishop despatched his
agents to investigate the reports.

Gilles de Laval, the investigators
found, had suddenly quit a most promis¬
ing career at court to immure himself in
his country seat at Machecoul, a gloomy
chateau, composed of huge towers and
surrounded by deep moats. Also, since
hiq residence in the country, he had
deeded vast tracts of land to John V.
Duke of Brittany, in order, it was
whispered, to prevent that nobleman’s

While the marshal kept closely to his
house most of the time, he was wont to
make occasional trips to nearby towns,
always accompanied by a princely re¬
tinue. He spent money with a lavish
hand, enriching inn-keepers and trades¬
men beyond their wildest dreams, and
distributing vast sums of gold to the

It might have been supposed that the
townspeople would have welcomed, his
coming as a visitation from the good
Saint Nicholas himself. Tet, the bishop’s
agents found, whenever the marshal left

a town, the cries of the poor, which had
been restrained while the dank of his
men at arms sounded in the streets,
broke forth. Tears flowed, curses were
uttered; a long-continued wail went up
to heaven. Mothers had lost their chil¬
dren, babes had been snatched from the
cradle, infants had been spirited almost
from their mothers’ breasts; and it was
known by sad experience that the van¬
ished little ones would never be seen

De Retz’s castle at Machecoul was al¬
ways in condition to resist siege. The
drawbridge was raised, the portcullis
down, the gates closed, the retainers con¬
stantly under arms. No one, except the
marshal 's own servants, the investigators
heard, had even been known to go
through the chateau’s mysterious gates
and come forth alive.

In the surrounding country strange
tales of horror and deviltry circulated
in hushed whisper's. Yet it was observed
that the chapel of the castle was gorge¬
ously decked with silk and cloth of gold
and the sacred vessels were encrusted
with gems. The excessive devotion of
the marshal was also noted. He was said
to be passionately fond of ecclesiastical
music and to hear mass three times daily.

But when dusk settled over the forest,
and one by one the castle windows be¬
came illuminated, peasants would point
to one casement, high up in an isolated
tower from which a clear light streamed
through the gloom. They told of a fierce
red glare which came from that window
at times, and of agonized cries—chil¬
dren’s cries—ringing from it; cries
which had no answer but the howl of
the wolf as he rose to quest and kill his
prey by night.

/■'yNCE or twice a week the drawbridge

’ was lowered and the servants of de
Retz stood at the gateway distributing
clothes, money and food to the beggars
who crowded round. It often happened

64

fiat children were among those beggars;
the servants wonld offer them rare
dainties if they would go to the kitchen
for them. Those little tots who accepted
the offers were never seen again.

Charges had been laid before the duke
of Brittany, accusing the marshal as a
wholesale murderer of children. The
duke had treated the accusations and the
accusers alike with scorn.

When this report was laid before the
bishop, he summoned Pierre de l’Hos-
pital, grand-seneschal of Brittany, for
a conference. Together they demanded
that the duke order the arrest of the
marshal on a charge of murder, threat¬
ening action by the church if he refused.
Reluctantly the duke had Pierre de
l’Hospital proceed with the prosecution.
Action followed immediately. A sergent
d*armes was given a warrant authorizing
him to take “the very mighty, very
powerful Sire de Betz and his accom¬
plices” into custody.

Jean Labbe, the sergeant, was a man
worthy of the master he served. Though
warned that resistance would likely be
encountered at the chateau, he selected a
posse of twenty chosen men and marched
to the castle gate, calling lustily upon
the Sire de Retz to surrender.

“Who calls?” demanded the marshal,
from behind the portcullis.

“LabbS,” replied the sergeant draw¬
ing his sword.

The marshal turned pale, crossed him¬
self and ordered the drawbridge lowered,
saying, “It is impossible to resist fate”

Tears before an astrologer had warned
him he would one day fall into the hands
of an abbf. Until the moment the
sergeant demanded his surrender, the
marshal had supposed the prophecy
meant he would one day become a monk.

Accompanied by two of his retainers
who had been his inseparable compan¬
ions, Henriet and Pontou by name, the
marshal crossed the drawbridge and
handed his sword to Jean LabbS.

Closely guarded by the sergeant’s
posse, the accused men made their way
to Nantes, where Pierre de 1’Hospital
waited to dispense stem and even-hand¬
ed justice.

It was well for the Sire de Retz that
LabM had brought his score of daunt¬
less peace officers with him. When word
passed among the villagers that the re¬
doubted GiUes de Laval was riding
toward Nantes, surrounded by a body¬
guard of agents d’armes, peasants left
their fields, women their kitchens, and
laborers dropped their tools to throng
the streets.

“ ’Way!” cried Jean Labbfi, “give
way to the servants of my Lord
Bishop!”

WEIRD CRIMES

A sullen murmur from the crowd an-

Suddenly a woman’s shrill scream rent
the noonday calm.

"My child!” she shrieked. “Accursed
of God, restore my child!”

Then a wild, wrathful howl broke
from the crowd, rang along the Nantes
road, and died away only when the great
gates of the Chateau de Bouffay clanged
shut behind the prisoner.

c-pHE whole population of Nantes was
in a turmoil. It was whispered the
investigation would be a farce. The duke
would surely screen his kinsman. The
Sire de Retz would be forced to sur¬
render some more of his land, perhaps;
after that he would be released. Justice
weighed heavily only on the poor.

shield the accused. Jean de Toucheronde,
whose office it was to collect evidence
against the prisoners was approached by
the duke and told that it would be pleas¬
ing to that great nobleman if the evi¬
dence was so colored as to render the
charge on which de Retz would be tried
less than capital.

But the duke reckoned without the
Bishop of Nantes and Pierre de l’Hos¬
pital, grand-seneschal of Brittany. These
fearless exponents of justice summoned
de Toucheronde before them.

“Monsieur,” said de l’Hospital, fixing
his penetrating black eyes on the lawyer,
“your duty lies plain before you. See
to it that it be well performed.”

The bishop fingered the jeweled cross
suspended from his neck by its golden

“You have taken an oath to do equal
justice to rich and poor, Monsieur,” he
reminded de Toucheronde. “Excommun¬
ication may be the penalty for oath-

Criminal procedure then in vogue in
France differed from that of England
in that the accused was not permitted to
confront his accusers face to face at the
trial. Evidence for the prosecution was
taken before a commissioner, especially
nominated for that purpose, then re¬
duced to writing. The transcript of this
testimony was then transmitted to the
trial justice, who summoned the accused
before him, read a brief summary of the
offense of which he was charged, and
proceeded to examine him.

No opportunity was afforded the
prisoner for cross-examination of the
prosecution’s witnesses, nor was he in¬
formed of the nature of their testimony.
It remained for the, judge to piece to¬
gether the stories of the prosecution and
defense, deciding for himself whether
the prisoner had adequately refuted the

vantage lacked by the common law sys¬
tem: the accused was unable to invent
false testimony with which to meet un¬
expected statements made by the prose-

The investigation opened on the morn¬
ing of September 18, 1440. The wit¬
nesses were introduced into the hall of
justice singly, or in groups if they were
relations. On entering the room, each
witness knelt before the commissioner,
kissed the crucifix, and swore with his
hand on the Gospels that he would speak
the truth and nothing but the truth.
After this he related all the facts in his
knowledge pertaining to the case, with¬
out being either interrogated or inter-

The first to present herself was
Perrine Loessard, living at la Roche-
Bernard. Tears, streaming down her
face, she related how, two years before,
in the month of September, the Sire de
Retz, with all his retinue, passed through
la Roehe-Bemard. She lived opposite
the house where the nobleman stopped.
Her child, a lad of ten, the finest in the
village, had attracted the attention of de
Retz as he stood at a window, leaning on
his squire’s shoulder.

Pontou, de Retz’s servant, spoke to
the boy, asking him what he intended to

“A soldier,” the lad replied.

“Very well,” Pontou answered,
“come with me, and I will give you a

Deposition followed deposition, always
to the same effect. Parents had left
their houses, sometimes only for a few
moments; when they returned their
children were gone. An old beggar
woman, once subsisting on the peasant’s
alms, had been observed going toward
the castle at evening many times, ac¬
companied by children. She invariably
returned alone. In a few months, from
some unknown source, she had amassed
a competence, moved from the neighbor¬
hood, and was seen no more.

Thirty children had disappeared from
a single village within a year.

And the victims were always boys. No
girl child had been molested.

So frequent had the kidnappings be¬
come that parents dared not send chil¬
dren to tend sheep or goats, or carry
food to their fathers or brothers work¬
ing in the fields.

This is the First of.a Series of Articles Written for WEIRD TALES by
Seabury H^uinn. The Second Will Appear in the November Issue

Weird Snake Dance of Hopis May Be Tabooed

A Fantastic Tale by the Author
of “The Snake Fiend”

AN ADVENTURE IN THE
FOURTH DIMENSION

By FARNSWORTH WRIGHT

70 AN ADVENTURE OP THE FOURTH DIMENSION

“Interesting, if true,” I remarked.
“And what might Jupiterians bet”

“They might be men, but they’re
not,” he snapped. “They are people
from the planet Jupiter. Out of your
ignorance you though they might be
Martians or Venusians, but you are
wrong, for Mars and Venus have people
of three dimensions, like ourselves. Ju-
piterians are entirely different There
are six hundred thousand of them in this
Jupiterian airship.”

I was so overjoyed at finding someone
who could tell me about them, that I
didn’t think to ask him how he knew all
these startling facts.

‘ ‘ "Where is the airship you speak oft”
I asked.

“There it is,” he answered, rather
grandiloquently, and pointed to an
empty spot on the grass.

I looked carefully, and made out a
vast, transparent globe, apparently of
glass, which was rapidly becoming
visible because of the Chicago dust that
was settling npon it I approached, and
touched it with my hand. It gave forth
a metallic ring.

“Aha,” laughed the professor. “You
thought it was glass, but it is made of
Jupiterian steel. Look out 1 ’ ’

I sprang back at his warning, and the
last hundred thousand leapt out of the
globe, passing right through the trans¬
parent metal of which it was composed.

“Nom de mademoiselle!” I exclaimed,
in astonishment. This was a swear word
I had learned in Prance when I was in
the army.

“Nom de mademoiselle!” I repeated,
for I liked to show off my knowledge of
the language. “How can they pass
through the glass without breaking it!”

“Through the Jupiterian steel, you
mean,” said Professor Nutt, severely.
“I told you before that it is not glass.
Jupiterian steel has four dimensions,
and they pass through the fourth dimen¬
sion. That is why you can’t see the
metal, for your eyes are only three-di¬
mensional.”

“Are the Jupiterian people four-di¬
mensional!” I asked, awed.

“Certainly,” said Nutt, rather irrit¬
ably.

“Then how is it that I can see them)”
I exclaimed triumphantly.

“You see only three of their four di¬
mensions,” he replied. “The other one

I turned to look again at the Jupiter-
ians, who now covered the whole water-
front. One of them sprang lightly, fifty
feet into the air, extended a hundred
ears like tentacles, and seized an English
sparrow. He crushed the sparrow with
some score or more of his teeth, which.

as I have said, covered hia whole body.
In less than a minute the poor bird was
chewed to pieces. I looked closer, and
saw that the Jupiterian had no mouth.

“Nom de mademoiselle!” I exclaimed,
for the third time. ‘ ‘ How can it get the
bird into its stomach!”

“Through the fourth dimension,” said
Professor Nutt.

It was true. The chewed-up pieces of
the bird were suddenly tossed into the
air, and the Jupiterian sprang lightly
after them. In mid-air he turned inside
out, caught the pieces of the bird in his
stomach, and lit on the grass again right
side up with care.

“Did yon see that!” I exclaimed, in a
hushed voice. “Why can’t I turn inside

“Because you are not four-dimen¬
sional,” replied the professor, a trace of
annoyance in his voice. “It is a beauti¬
ful thing to have four dimensions,” he
rhapsodized. “Your Jupiterian is your
only true intellectual, for he alone can
truly reflect. He turns his gaze in upon

“And sees what he had for break¬
fast!” I gasped. “And what his neigh¬
bors had, too!”

“Your questions are childish,” said
the professor; wearily. “A Jupiterian,
of course, can look into the soul of
things, and see what his neighbors had
for breakfast, as you so vulgarly ex¬
press it. But Jupiterians turn their
thoughts to higher things.”

The creatures now surrounded me,
their ears turned inwards, as if they
were supplicating.

“What do they want!” I asked the
professor.

“They want something to drink,” he
replied. “They are pointing their ears
toward their stomachs to show that they
are thirsty.”

“Oh,” I said, and pointed toward the
lake. “There is the fresh, cool water of
the lake, if they are thirsty.”

“Don’t be fantastic,” said Professor
Nutt. “It isn’t water they want.”

He fixed his stem, pitiless gaze on my
hip pocket. I turned pale, for it was
my last pint. But I had to submit. If
you have ever hod Professor Nutt’s cold,
accusing eyes on you, you will know just
how I felt

I drew the flask from my pocket, and
handed it to the chief Jupiterian, who
waggled his ears in joy. Immediately
there was pandemonium, if you know
what I mean. Ten thousand times ten
thousand ears seized the cork, and pulled
it out with a resounding pop. One
thirsty Jupiterian passed right through
the glass into the bottle in his eagerness

to get at the contents, and nearly
drowned for his pains.

“You see how useful it is to be four¬
dimensional,” remarked the professor.
“You could get into any cellar in the
world by merely passing through the
walls. And into any heer-keg in the same

“But,” I argued, “how did this—this
insect get through the glass into the
whisky bottle! Glass has only three di¬
mensions, like everything else in this

“Don’t call him an insect!” Nutt
sharply reprimanded me. “He is a
Jupiterian, and as such he is infinitely
superior to you and me. He passed
through the glass because he is four-di¬
mensional, even though the glass isn’t.
If you had four dimensions, you could
untie any knot by merely passing it
through itself. You could turn inside
out, or pass through yourself until your
right hand became your left hand, and
change into your own image as you see
it in the looking-glass.”

“Nom de mademoiselle!” I exclaimed,
for the fourth time.

A distant noise of barking was borne
to my ears by the breeze. All the dogs in
the city seemed to have gone wild.

“They are disturbed by the talking of
the Jupiterians,” explained the profes¬
sor. “It is too high-pitched for clod¬
hopper human ears to hear, unless they
have an unusual range, but the dogs can
hear it plainly.”

I listened, and finally made out a very
shrill humming, higher than any sound I
had ever heard before in my life, and
infinitely sweet and piercing.

“Ah, I am hearing four-dimensional
sounds,” I thought, aloud.

“Wrong, as usual,” exacerbated the
professor, with much heat. “Sound has
no dimensions. It proceeds in waves,
and bends back upon itself until it meets
itself at an infinite distance from the
starting point. There are three reasons
why you can’t hear the music of the
spheres: first, because it is bent away
from the earth by the force of gravity as
it passes the sun; second, because your
ears are not attuned to so shrill a sound;
and third, because there is no music of
the spheres. The first two reasons are
really unnecessary, in the light of the
third; but a scientific mind such as mine
is not content with one reason when
three can be adduced just as easily.”

"Shades of Sir Oliver Lodge!” I
ejaculated.

“Sir Oliver is alive,” the professor
corrected me. “A man does not become
a shade until after his death. Then he
(Continued on page 93)

MASTERPIECES OF WEIRD FICTION

The Pit and the Pendulum

By EDGAR ALLAN POE

An Unexpected Thing
Happened to Bennett Tierney

After the Storm

A Short Story

By SARAH HARJJINE WEAVER

B ENNETT TIERNEY did a queer

Central Park South, discussing
Tom, Dick and Hatriet when my gaze
was arrested by a photograph on his
desk.

It was the picture of a girl in decollete
gown, with a rose fastened in the diaph¬
anous draperies of her bodice—a girl
of classic beauty. For the nonce, I for¬
got everything trying to .recall where I
had seen that vivid face.

When I had sauntered into Bennett’s
bachelor apartments, he had called my
attention to the view from his windows.
Now, he suddenly sprang to his feet and
with a wide gesture cried:

“Look, McDonald, there goes a Car¬
dinal—in that victoria!”

As I glanced down at a figure in ec¬
clesiastical scarlet, Bennett strode
quickly across the room. I turned in
time to see him grasp the photograph
which had piqued my interest and throw
it into the drawer of his desk. Then he
dropped into a chair where he sat mo¬
tionless—his face a mask.

“What on earth—” I began, and
stopped abruptly. One could as soon
chuck President Coolidge under the chin
or wink at General Pershing as assume
liberties with Bennett Tierney. But
why on earth, I wondered, did he want
to get that picture out of my sight?

The incident brought to mind talk I
had heard of Bennett’s engagement to
an out-of-town girl. But whether the
match had materialized I never had
heard. I was endeavoring to piece to¬
gether odd fragments of gossip when
Bennett brought me back to actualities.

“It’s odd how you and I have
drifted,” he began. “Pals at Harvard
—no.w almost strangers. You’re still at
111 Broadway?”

“Oh, I’m there all right, although my
clients don’t seem aware of the fact.
The population of Greater New York is
over seven millions, yet, judging from
the eager multitudes which flock to my
door, Manhattan might be a desert

The Cauldron

True Adventures of Terror
PRESTON°LANGLEY Y HICKEY

VX7HILE the columns of THE CAULDRON are open to all those knowing of or having experienced genuinely weird
” or horrifying adventures, the editor wishes to make plain that no more manuscripts dealing with ghosts or any
phase of spiritualism will be considered, unless they are of unusual merit. This step is taken beoause THE CAUL¬
DRON is not a department of pByohic phenomena, and to discourage authors from submitting articles along these lines,
scores of which are reoeived daily. What THE CAULDRON wants, as we state in our heading, are “True Adven¬
tures of Terror,” and not impossible “spirit” stories.

iHilil EslSSsl

mrnmm^mSsB

] THE EYRIE [

m

Our Vox Pop mail is heavier than ever; and
as that WEIRD TALES is steadily widening its
circle of readers. And that, you may be sure, doesn’t dis¬
please us any.

Some of our correspondents are ecstatically delighted,
some are only moderately satisfied, and some are woefully
disappointed, with the magazine we’re trying to edit. That
doesn’t irk us either. We Bhall never be troubled, in fact,
so long as people write to us—either in praise or disparage¬
ment. That shows, at any rate, that WEIRD TALES is
being read and discussed.

But if they cease to say what they think of the magazine—
if they ever stop caring about it, one way or the other—why,
then, of course we WILL begin to worry. We’ll know then
that something is wrong somewhere.

We’ve often remarked in these Columns of Cunning that
nobody can make us sore, no matter how hard he slams our
magazine; and we’ve gone even further and declared that
our calumnious letters are read with keener interest than
those that flatter us. And, just to prove that we meant what
we •said, we’re going to start The Eyrie this month with all
the lampoons we’ve received in four weeks.

There are only three, as it happens, and here they are:

“My Dear Mr. Baird: ‘The Invisible Terror,’ in
the June number of WEIRD TALES, is much like
Bierce’s ‘The Damned Thing.' ‘The Gray Death’is
very like ‘The Silver Menace,’ published a decade
ago. ‘Penelope,’ in May WEIRD TALES, is very
like ‘Phoebe’ of some years ago—the better of the
two. Phoebe was the malignant star, and the man

written by a gentleman of Jersey City, who likewise asked
to have his name omitted:

Dear Sir: Referring to Mr. Francis Steven’s
tale, ‘Sunfire,’ in the July-August issue of WEIRD
TALES. This is a good tale, so far, but I would like
to make the following comment: I have always un¬
derstood that the great desideratum in all story tell¬
ing was an appearance or effect of realism, truth or
plausibility, brought about by the adherence of
statements as close to actual facts as possible. Now,
after several hundred, or possibly several thousand,
years of mining, a diamond of half a ton weight, as
the diamond in your story, is manifestly absurd;
and do you not think that the story would have been
better if, say, a nugget or ingot of silver, gold or
platinum, all of which are also found in South
America, had been mentioned, hammered and pol¬
ished in mirror form?

“Half-ton (or, as they would say in Latin Amer¬
ica, 300 kilograms), nuggets or ingots are not be¬
yond the bounds of possibility, and may have actu¬
ally been found, hammered or cast. Ingots can be
cast of this weight. Or a slab or plate of this
weight, set with large diamonds, somewhat on the
manner of modem vault lights or sidewalk lights,
would have imparted a touch of realism which
would also have been sufficiently bizarre or outre to
keep the story under the heading, ‘Weird,’ and fur¬
nished enough ‘sunfire.’

“But having both the centipede and the diamond
oversize to such an extent is piling it on a bit thick,
although the centipede, being alive, might possibly
have been developed in some way to help out on the
weirdness.—J. LJ’

“ ‘One of the Bunch’ wrote you that ‘The Phan¬
tom Wolfhound’ was ‘fairly wen written, but
mighty unconvincing.’ I do not agree with ‘One,’ so
far as unconvincing goes. The ohild grieved for her
dog and dreamed about him. Mr. Ritsky was sen¬
sitive and received by telepathy the vibrating
thoughts of the child, strongest when she was asleep.
They disturbed his rest and probably pricked his
conscience, causing distressing mental pictures. . . .

The only criticism I have to make of the story is the
‘white thing’ floating from between the child’s lips.
Thoughts are invisible. . . .

.—...“I like ‘The Evening Wolves,’ ‘The Two Men
Who Murdered Each Other,’ and ‘The Guard of
Honor. ’ I don't like Brutal murder stories or stories
of horrible crime.”

That came from a young woman in Hayward, California,
who, though signing he! name, requested us to credit her
criticism to “An Old Fashioned Woman.” And the next was

And the third comes from Dick P. Tooker, of Minneapolis:

“I have purchased every issue of your magazine
since it was begun, and I believe you are filling a po¬
sition in the magazine field that has long needed
filling. I was disappointed in not getting a com¬
plete July issue. Like some of the readers wrote in
The Eyrie, I believe the first two issues of WEIRD
TALES were the best. You are running a few stories
every month that are as good as your first ones,
but in the last two issues especially I have caught
myself yawning when half way through several of
them. But no one would think of yawning while
reading ‘Shades’ or ‘The Room of the Black Velvet
Drapes.’ Please keep on improving your covers’’

A ND now, having disposed of that trio of roasts (which
quite failed to blister us), let us turn to those letters
of another sort. First, we shall consider this one from Joel
Shoemaker of 4116 Aiken Avenue, Seattle, Washington:

THE EYRIE

"My Dear Brother Baird: The big donble mm-
her, with thirteen thrilling short stories, two com¬
plete novelettes and two two-part stories, is before
me. It is a fine number. We waited a long time for
it. There are six grown-ups in my family—myself
and wife and two sons and two daughters—and we
all want WEIRD TALES as soon as it reaches the
newsdealer.

“Of course, I kept my eye out for the first copy
that might land in the city. Every newsdealer
heard my voice asking why WEIRD TALES did not
show np. No one could give me information.

"Then there came the big Jnly-August number.
It was picked up without even the formality of ask¬
ing the salesman. Then the trouble began, for all
wanted to read WEIRD TALES. It was so big, had
so many stories, and was so interesting that it was

points of the law, ’ while one had the magasine and
five wanted to get eyes on it.

“The magazine suits me fine. . . . We need more
of the real salt of the earth to go with the iron that
we pick up from the raisins, grapes and other
sources, and in WEIRD TALES you have struck the
vein of salt that preserves life.”

And, next, the following from Lee Torpie, of 1204 Mason
Street, San Francisco:

“Dear Sir: I used to think reading magazines
a waste of time, until last April, when, quite by
ohance, I bought a copy of WEIRD TALES for
March—the first issue. Since then, I’ve watched for
your magazine eagerly each month; I found it filled
in pleasantly bits of spare time, too brief for the
reading of books. The stories were the sort I liked
best, and while I oannot account for the scarcity of
such fiction, I know from experience how hard it is
to get.

“With my discovery of WEIRD TALES, I felt
the problem of finding interesting reading matter
for the little leisure I have was solved. Getting
my copy for April wasn’t all beer and skittles—I
secured the first copy in a town where I was stop¬
ping at the time, and when I came to look for the
magazine in San Francisco, I entered several book¬
stores and stopped at many magazine stands before
I found an enlightened druggist who supplied me
with the April number. I went there for the May
and June issues.

“To my consternation, when I called for the July
number, the druggist said it hadn’t come in. Since
then, I have haunted that drug store—daily at first,
till, the clerk greeted me with a grin and a shake
of the head before I had time to ask him the mo¬
mentous question.

“So I am appealing to you. Perhaps you have
decided not to market WEIRD TALES on the Paci¬
fic Coast; if that is the reason for my inability to get
the July issue, I’ll go into the subscriber class, if
I may—then I’ll be sure to have the magazine each

Mr. Torpie, we are happy to say, has since read our July-
Angust issue, and, we hope, the September number, too.

TTERE is one that we’re not quite sure about. Maybe it
1 A belongs in that first batch. Maybe not. At any rate,
here goes:

“Dear Mr. Baird: I was not disappointed in the
June number of WEIRD TALES. I was only disap¬
pointed in not finding that magazine on the news¬
stands for July. I thought that either you or
WEIRD TALES had died suddenly! I was reas¬
sured, however, when I beheld its welcome resurrec¬
tion in August, so I put aside thoughts of mourning

reprint of Poe’s Morgue Street Murders, my con¬
tention being that everybody who has read anything
is already familiar with such literature; that you re-

the pages upon which they are printed is so much
waste paper to the greater number. Miss Burchard,
I note, opposes this theory and even suggests that
you reprint Sherlock Holmes! Now, I would ask
Miss B. who under the canopy is not familiar with
thpse famous stories? Who among the readers of
WEIRD TALES hasn’t already been satiated with
them—‘The Speckled Band,’ ‘The End of the Pas¬
sage,’ and so on?

“In theBe days, when a subscription to certain
periodicals carries with it a set of Poe, Doyle, Bul-
wer, 0. Henry, suoh reading is within the reach of
all. 'The Upper Berth’ is an exception, I fancy, and
I hope we may have it should you lay hands on it.
I am, however, open to conviction, and if yon ever
think of taking a census of opinion in the matter
I shall bow to the majority.

“P. S.—The July-August number was very inter¬
esting in that there was neither love mush nor old
junk of the Bulwer type. ’Sunflre’ is immense,
and the close of ‘Evening Wolves’ was quite as it
should be.”

The foregoing was written by Dr. Henry C. Murphy of
Brooklyn; and, before we comment upon it, we rise to re¬
mark that WEIRD TALES seems to offer a special appeal to
physicians and surgeons. They like to read our sort of stor¬
ies, and they like to write ’em. There is scarcely a day that
we don’t get at least one weird story written by a doctor.
Doctors, it seems, encounter some weird adventures.

With regard to the argument against reprinting weird
classics, so ably presented by Dr. Murphy, we’ll say there’s
an even greater division of opinion on this than there is on
the matter of serials. Since the publication of Miss Burch¬
ard’s letter we’ve received at least two dozen communica-

F. Marion Crawford and earnestly requesting us to reprint
this story and others like it. Opposed to these, we have some
eight or ten letters telling us bluntly to lay off the old stuff.
What to do? . . . Well, since Dr. Murphy says he will bow
to the majority, I suppose we’d best do the same thing—
and give “The Upper Berth” another run. (The Pullman
Company should thank us, anyway.)

THE EYRIE

■you may recall the letter from H. P. Lovecraft, published
* here last month. A bit caustic, that letter; and today
we have pleasure in offering another, which, if less stinging,
is none-the-less enjoyable. Our friend Lovecraft always has
something to say when he writes. Thus:

“Bear Mr. Baird: I should apologize if my for¬
mer letter seemed to tax WEIRD TALES with seek¬
ing conventional material. Snch was not my
intention in any way. I only meant that I presumed
you would not wish too subtle or cryptical material
for presentation to the general pnblic. There is a
difference between' mere originality and delicate
symbolism, or hideously nebulous adumbration. How
many American readers outside the frankly ‘high¬
brow’ class, for example, would find any pleasure
or coherent impression in Arthur Machen's ‘The
White People,’ or in the fantastic passages of the
same author’s ‘Hill of Dreams’? In a word, I take
it that WEIRD TALES Wants definite stories, with
a maximum of plot, tension of situation, explosive
climax, and statement rather than too elusive sug¬
gestion—this rather than, the Baudelairiam prose-
poem ,of spiritual Satanism, where chiseled phrase,
lyrical tone, color, and an opiate luxuriance of ex¬
otic imagery form the chief sources of the macabre
impression. ...

“I lately read the May WEIRD TALES, and con¬
gratulate you on Mr. Humphrey’s “The Floor
Above.’ £for a moment I had a shiver which the au-
thor didn’t intend—I thought he was going to use
an idea which I am planning to use myself!! But it
wasn’t so, after all], which is a close second to my
favorite, ‘Beyond the Door.’ Evidently my taste
runs to the architectural ! ‘Penelope’ is clever—but
Holy Pete! If the illustrious Starrett’s ignorance of
astronomy is an artfully conceived attribute of his
character’s whimsical narrative, I’ll say he’s right
there with the verisimilitude! I wrote monthly as¬
tronomical articles for the daily press between 1906
and 1918, and have a vast affection for the celestial

“Some day I may send you a possible filler, be-

“Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,
Past the wan-moon’d abysses of night,

I have lived o’er my lives without nuihber,

I have sounded all things with my sight—

And I struggle - and shriek ere the daybreak, being

driven to madness and fright.”

we submit the prologue to a 300-line heroic poem of his that
we may print some day:

“I am he who howls in the night;

I am he who moans in the snow;

I am he who hath never seen light;

I am he who mounts from below.

My oar is the car of death;

My wings are the wings of dread;

My breath is the north wind’s breath;

My prey are the cold and dead.”

As you know, we are publishing a series of Mr. Love-
craft’s prose pieces, beginning with “Dagon;” and of this
story he wrote us, in part:

“I shall venture ‘Dagon’ as a sort of test of my
stuff in general. If you don’t care for this, you
won’t care for anything of mine. ... It is not that
‘Dagon’ is the best of my tales, but that it is per¬
haps the most direct and least subtle in its ‘punoh’;
so that for popular publication it is most likely to
please most. In copying it I have touched up one
or two crude spots—it having been written in 1917,
directly after a lull of nine years in my fiction-writ¬
ing. Naturally I was a bit rusty in the manage¬
ment of the prose. A friend of mine—Clark Ashton
Smith, the California poet of honror, madness and
morbid beauty—showed this yarn to George Ster¬
ling, who declared he liked it very much, though
suggesting (absurdly enough, as I view it!) that I
have the monolith topple over and kill the ‘thing’
... a piece of advice which makes me feel that
poets should stick to their sonneteering...

"My love of the weird makes me eager to do any¬
thing I can to put good material in the path of a
magazine which so gratifyingly cultivates that fav-
orite element. I shall await with interest the next
issues, with the tales you mention, and am mean¬
while trying to get the opening number through a
newsdealer. I am sure the venture will elicit some
notable contributions as its fame spreads—and the
extent of that fame may be judged from the fact
that people in Massachusetts, New York, Ohio and
California have been equally prompt in calling my
attention to it and urging me to try my luck!”

In a way, “Dagon” is a radically different sort of story,
even for WEIRD TALES, and those that will follow it are
even more so. For this reason, we shall be particularly in¬
terested in hearing what our readers think of the Lovecraft
tales. THE EDITOR.

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The People of the Comet

(Continued front page 31)

to hold out- balance. But I had time to
get our surroundings.

“ ‘ We were on a thumb 1 It was bear¬
ing us across the room. The shrill
thunder was laughter. We were astride
the thumb nail! We had come out just
underneath the nail 1 That was what I
had taken for the great semi-transparent
roof.

“ ‘The gulf grew smaller, and 1 beheld
a vast flat surface below us. The thumb
had lifted us upon a table. We were in
an immense room, full of men, vast
forms, unlike any 1 had ever seen. They
were moving about and all talking at
once. The noise was terrible.

“‘Still we were growing!

“ * At last we were large enough to
step off the thumb to the table. 1 took
Sora’s hand in mine and stood up.

wonderful beings, bearded and splendid!
They were gazing down upon us, with

were as miraculous to them as they were
to us. 1 held Sora’s arm and made a
sweep with my hand, trying to convey
the suggestion that I wanted them to sit

“ ‘They seemed to understand. That
was better. In their chairs they were not
so terrible.

“ ‘ ‘‘Oh, Alvas 1 What sort of a room
is tills? What is that thing hanging,
yonder, from the ceiling 1”

“ ‘1 looked and saw we were in an ob¬
servatory. The men were astronomers!
The thing that hung from the ceiling was
a telescope. They were studying stars.

CHAPTER NINE

“ •rj-'Hl

re grouped about us-great . “ V , °i “ e st fl
pointed to the telescope. If I could
let them know what I knew, and make
them understand how we had come. I
tried to convey my meaning of an earth.
They held their heads close to the table.
Again I pointed to the telescope,
would see the stars! Finally I mad
them understand. One of them placed
his hand, palm up, upon, the table. It
was an immense hand. When we did
not move he touched us with his finger.
The next instant Sora aud I were 1

‘“It was an immense affair. The eye¬
piece alone was twenty-six inches across,
so that it was much like looklhg through
the immense lense of one of our own

great eyes glowing like huge fires of in¬
telligence. Their curiosity had been ex¬
cited by our interest in their telescope.
They spoke and rumbled together; and
gesticulated with their hands. At last
they seemed to come to an agreement.
The hand that held us conveyed us, as
tenderly as possible, back.to the table.

“ ‘ Then one of them stretched a white
substance, much like parchment, ot
my feet. He placed a long cane ir
hand. The cane was a pencil The great
eyes were watching, wondering if I could
understand. Then I realized what was
wanted. I could not speak nor explain
(Continued on page 86j

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THE CASE OF THE GOLDEN
LILY

(Continued from page 62)

“Crawdell, as you, Dale, know, is an
excellent stage manager. He believes in
seeing to every detail himself, conse¬
quently the stage hands were not at all
surprised when he insisted on supervis¬
ing the arrangements for lighting the
golden lily which was so effectively used
by Carol at the conclusion of her dance.
You may remember that some weeks ago
the light in the lily nearly failed to act.

“Some defect was discovered just in
time by Crawdell himself, and after that
he got the electrician to teach him
enough to allow him to look after the
thing himself in future. Whether he
himself contrived the original defect, or
whether it suggested the eventual plot to
Mademoiselle Nadia is immaterial. They
evolved a plan as novel as it was fiendish.
As you know, the current supplying the
globe in the lily was conveyed by means
of thin wires, invisible to the audience,
from an electrical supply behind the
scenes. For convenience, the ends of the
wires terminated in a small plug which
was fitted to a wire taken to a point not
far from the stage.

“It was an obscure comer, where
there was just light enough when the
lights were down foT a person to move
without falling. Crawdell, as I have dis¬
covered, came to the theater early this
morning, and busied himself with the
golden lily and the arrangements for
lighting it. This occasioned no surprise,
as he would naturally be anxious that
nothing should go wrong on this night of
all nights, and the staff were accustomed
to what they described as his fussy ways.

“As a matter of fact, Crawdell, who
had learned more about electricity than
his teacher supposed, had fitted a wire
to the main cable which conveys the enor¬
mously powerful current used for the
great lights of the auditorium. You do
not need to be electricians to understand
that when this powerful current was
passed into the globe in the lily, the globe
could not stand it, and was instantly
shattered. Nadia and Crawdell had ob¬
served that Carol always raised the lily
to her faoe, and they naturally expected
that the explosion would blind her—
blind her at the moment of her triumph
and on the eve of her wedding—”

Dale’s fist crashing down on his table

“What a hellish plotl” he cried.

Nadia and Crawdell had sprung to
their feet, but Paul’s hand came quickly
from his pocket, holding an automatic

(Continued on page 92)

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“They pack us in just as tight, n I
ventured to remark.

The globe had begun to shoot into the
air, when there came from behind me a
high-pitched wail of distress, a shriller
and higher sound than had ever before
been heard by human ears, so the pro¬
fessor assured me. The chief Jupiterian
had been left behind. He it was who
had passed into the whisky bottle. Not
content with getting the.lion’s share of
the contents, he had surrounded the
bottle, in his pleasant four-dimensional
way, and now he could not get rid of it.

“Why doesn’t he turn inside out
again, and drop the bottle?’’ I asked,

“Because your whisky has paralyzed
him,” answered the professor. “He is
quite helpless.”

I looked at the globe, which had
alighted again. Each Jupiterian sud¬
denly resumed his full size, in a brave
attempt to bound to the assistance of his
chief. But the creatures could no longer
pass through the four-dimensional metal
of which the globe was composed. So
thick a layer of Chicago dust had settled
upon it, that to all intents and purposes
it had become three-dimensional. The
sudden impact of six hundred thousand
bodies caused it to burst, with a roar
as of a hundred peals of thunder ex¬
ploding simultaneously. The air was
filled with dead and dying .Jupiterians.
A dark cloud settled over the landscape,
composed of the flying dust shaken from
the Jupiterian globe by the explosion.
Long streamers of electric tire shot from
the fragments of the airship, and seemed
to curve in upon themselves. Every¬
thing ran in curves—the darkness, the
cloud, the sounds, the shafts of light—as

I put up my hands and fought the
cloud that was settling down upon me.
I seemed to be covered with falling
feathers, when the cloud began to lift. I
found myself in my own parlor. The
air was full of flying leaves, which I was
madly tearing from a book and throwing
toward the ceiling. The book was a
treatise on the Einstein theory of space,
which I had borrowed from a friend
that afternoon. I had read nearly a
page in it before I fell asleep.

Only twelve men in the whole world
understand the Einstein theory, it is
said. If I had read the book, I would
have been the thirteenth, and that would
be unlucky. So it is just as well that
it is destroyed. But what excuse am I to
give my friend for tearing up his book?

Pimples

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